


Rearranged Ghosts

by capalxii



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capalxii/pseuds/capalxii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of a too-long day. Post-TWF "Netflix and cry" fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearranged Ghosts

She probably should have gone after him.

A year ago, she might have done. She might have felt worry grow cold in her chest, started running with leaden legs and screamed herself hoarse trying to follow. But the early morning sun felt good on her skin as she watched a city tear itself apart, and the fresh air smelled sweet; she had no need to crush herself into his old blue box and fly off with him to wherever he'd rushed off to.

He'd be back. She sat down on the rocky ground, her jacket folded up under her and witnessed the city dying.

*

It only took him minutes, by her counting, to return. By his own—days. Days spent awake trying to help a boy back to a home that was nothing more than a tent in a city of tents, and then trying to help the wounded. His enemies, years later. Now, only bleeding and scared masses, surviving in a war so old that nobody still alive understood the reasons for it anymore. 

The TARDIS was warm when he finally made his way back, the processed air smelling slightly of ozone and cleansers. His blood felt heavy inside of him. His hearts: straining and fearful, both of them beating nearly loud enough to drown out the memory of artillery shells whistling through the sky and hitting dirt. There was an ache in his bones that he tried to ignore, and the sense of loss, the sense of theft and invasion that if he thought too much about, he—he didn't think about it.

When he stepped back out onto that same dirt centuries later, he saw Clara seated on the ground, sunlight shining on her face. It was quiet, in spite of what was happening only a few kilometers away, a sort of peace that he wasn't used to. “Are you ready?” he asked, walking to her.

She turned to him with a calm smile on her face. Not angry with him, not the slightest bit bothered by his leaving. “Where'd you just run off to?” she asked, but it was with the same tone of voice one might use when asking about the weather. 

He shrugged. “Would you believe here? Only, some years ago.”

Clara made to stand, and he held his hand out to her, ignoring the funny look she gave him. “I can believe it,” she said. “Any reason in particular?”

“I'd made a promise.”

“Did you keep it?”

“Yes.”

It was enough for her. She kept hold of his hand, led him back to the TARDIS. Distant sounds of explosions reached them, and his hearts, his hearts—he knew she'd felt his flinch. Inside the TARDIS quickly, letting go and hastening to the console, he busied himself with the work of getting them out of Skaro. 

“Doctor?” she asked.

He set the coordinates for her flat, knowing before he even asked what her answer would be. “Where to?”

“Doctor, you've gone a bit pale.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Not all of us can procure that sun-kissed look-”

“No, I mean more than normal,” she said, and suddenly her hands were on his sides, easing him against the console while his knees gave way. 

Very funny, he thought. The mess of chemicals that had been keeping him amped up and going the last few days wasn't enough anymore, a sudden betrayal brought on by some part of him deciding it was safe to collapse now. It wasn't safe, not while he still had to get her home, not while he still had to make sure she was all right. “Sorry,” he said; his voice sounded somehow foreign to him. “Had something of a rough time.”

“Doctor?” For the first time since he'd pulled her from the dalek casing, she sounded panicked. “Doctor, tell me what happened.”

“I-” Dig deep, he thought. With just enough juice left to steady himself a little while longer, he took the controls in hand and set the ship going. “Later. Promise.”

She was looking at him warily. “I'll hold you to that.”

“I expect you will,” he said.

*

This, she could do.

There was no helplessness in her now. Just a problem in need of a solution, a friend in need of care; she could action that. They landed outside her flat on the grass, and if she spent a few more moments than necessary taking in the night sky, he said nothing. But there'd be time for that later, time to stretch and live in the open. He was—tired. Even though he'd been able to muster up some strength after that brief wobble in the TARDIS, he couldn't quite hide the full extent of just how worn he was. It was an unnerving sight, something she hadn't experienced except for the one time, when he'd first regenerated; still, it was something she could deal with. Something to do, to fix, to take charge of. 

She texted Kate with an all-clear, then led him to the lift, took him inside. “Shower,” she said to him. “You need one more than I do.”

He looked at her with a flash of fear before his face settled into a prepared scowl. “Really? You were inside a dalek.”

“Yeah, kind of hard to forget,” she said with a touch more bitterness than she'd wanted. “You lived in a medieval village for three weeks. Shower.”

“They're a very clean people,” he said.

“Why are you afraid of showering?” No answer. “I'll be right outside. I'll be here. And hurry up, I need a wash too.”

He looked as though he wanted to suggest something, then thought better of it before saying, “I don't have any clothes here.”

“Yes you do. Remember when you accidentally ejected the TARDIS laundry but you still had a load to do? You've got a couple outfits still here.”

“I don't-”

“I'll bring you a change of clothes and sit outside the shower,” she said. “Would that help?”

He sagged against the wall; nodding, he began to strip off his clothes as he walked inside the bathroom.

Clara did exactly as promised, only pausing to open the windows and push the curtains aside. A bit of fresh air would help them both, clearing out the staleness in her flat as they got cleaned up. “You all right in there?” she asked, watching the vague shadow of his form behind the shower curtain. 

“Your shampoo smells like strawberries,” he said.

“You already knew that.”

“Didn't say I didn't like it.”

*

He didn't know exactly why she insisted on handing him his towel, then his clothes, from behind the curtain. It wasn't like there was anything odd about him, but she didn't seem to want to see. Still, the shower had done him good, and he wasn't going to complain about a little thing like human stodginess; when he stepped out of the shower, he asked, “Do you want me to hand you things too?”

She hesitated slightly. “Sure. Stay put, let me get what I need.”

He stayed put, and he stayed some more, and there was a slight breeze—cool, too cold to be comfortable, why did she have those windows open—but she was back after a few long minutes, a towel tied around her body and a pile of cotton pajamas shoved in his hands. He sat. He didn't mind it, as the bathroom filled up with steam; she liked a hotter shower than he did, human metabolism and body temperature begging for the warmth of a womb at its most stressful moments. “Clara?”

“Yes, Doctor?” she asked over the sound of falling water.

“Is it-” He stopped himself from completing the thought. Is it safe, he wondered. To close his eyes for a moment, and not remember the smell of gunpowder, not recall the feel of things being wrenched from him no matter how hard he tried to keep them. “What do you want to do next?”

She shut off the water and reached out for her towel. “Nothing. Sleep. Watch something silly on Netflix.”

“In that order?” he asked; his voice sounded strangely hollow in the bathroom, echoing emptily off the walls. 

“Maybe not exactly,” she said. Another hand reached out, and he handed her a green t-shirt that said Coal Hill Cadets on the front. “Netflix, sleep, nothing?”

He nodded even though she couldn't see him. “Sounds like a plan.” 

Her hand reached out one more time, and he handed her the pajama bottoms. She stepped out moments later with her hair wrapped by her towel, her skin still a bit damp under her clothes, and her face a little ruddy from the heat. “Bedroom. Now.”

Her bed was almost too soft, holding him like a lover as he waited for her to pull her tablet out and set it up. When she lay down beside him, he didn't know if it was the mattress sinking or his own body pulling closer to her almost instinctively; he wasn't sure it mattered.

*

For more than six months, she'd been without this. The feel of another next to you, the comfort of their breathing, their skin. Ancestral memory of safety in the pack, safety with someone who protects and who would be protected in turn; it wasn't something she'd ever missed until she'd known it and then had it taken from her. 

Danny had been a natural magnetic force to her, a comfort and a warmth that she could nestle against without thought, knowing he'd wrap himself around her just as naturally. The Doctor, however—he had his space, needed it. A brief touch was fine, a hand held in hers, but to be any closer required conscious thought. 

That he was pressed against her now wasn't lost on her. His head was on her shoulder, curly hair tickling her chin, an arm slung over her belly right behind her tablet. “Still doing the hugging,” she said. 

“Trying out something new,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Should always look to try new things, Clara, it's good for the soul.” He moved against her, his knee brushing against a bruise she hadn't realized she had until she'd taken a shower. When she made a sound of pain, he half sat up, asked, “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said, pulling him back down. “Just got a bit banged up. Don't worry.”

Again he looked like he wanted to say something, and again he thought better of saying it before laying back down next to her. “What are we watching?”

She flicked through the selection, frowned, tried to immerse herself in the mundane task of finding exactly the right thing. But her focus was gone. Or rather it was on something else entirely—the tightness of her flat, the sound of pipes and the background electric hum that she never used to notice. She dropped the tablet to her side, looked down at him, tried to wrap her mind around the idea that he'd want to be this close to her, that he'd be so relaxed with her arm around his shoulders. “Maybe just sleep? You still look a little tired.”

“No, want to watch something. I'm feeling better. Let's watch that show about the housewife, her husband leads a band. They have silly neighbors.”

She turned onto her side, pressed her forehead against his, and wrapped her other arm around him. “Don't want to.”

“Clara-”

The weight of her name cracked his voice; it was all she needed to hear for her own strength to break, the strain of the day buckling something inside of her as tears spilled down her cheek. “You thought you were going to die. You didn't tell me.”

“I didn't want you involved,” he said. His words were quiet but they filled the room, his presence making it seem so much bigger. “I didn't want you in danger.”

“You don't get to make that decision for me,” she whispered. “You tell me everything.”

*

Her flat was as far away from a battlefield as he could imagine. Perfume scenting the air of her bedroom sweetly, tea and sugar and fresh bread in the kitchen. Flowers in the sitting room. There were cars outside below, people in the rooms around them laughing or fighting, loving and joining each other. There was nothing here that could harm him. 

“Can we sleep first?” he asked. He couldn't bear to break the quiet; his voice was low, barely discernible, his words whispered into the breath of air she would momentarily take, as though he could send them directly to her without fearing they'd escape. “You're right, I'm tired.”

She pressed her mouth into a thin line, reached up to wipe a tear from her cheek—he wished he'd thought to do that for her. The wounds from the dalek interface had healed on their own, he hadn't had to do anything, she hadn't needed anything from him once she'd gotten free of the casing. He wished he could have at least wiped her tears away, then or now.

She shook her head and said, “I don't want to avoid this. Know you don't like to talk about feelings but I kind of think we have to.”

He softened his words with a smile, small but as big as he could muster. “And what you say, goes.”

It was enough to get her to crack her own watery smile. “I'm the boss, aren't I?”

His smile flashed bigger before fading, the ache inside of him combining with a growing heaviness pressing against his chest. “I didn't know I was going to die until I thought you were dead. And then I thought—if I die, at least I'll take them down with me. At least I can do that. One last hurrah.”

There; another tear, and he caught it, wet and hot against his thumb. But she reached out to his face, stroked his cheek before cupping the back of his neck and pulling him closer, and he felt that same kind of wetness between his skin and the soft cotton of her shirt. “You planned it,” she said. “Just like—like-”

*

Clara didn't enjoy remembering it. The heat of the volcano, as unreal as it was, came back to her some nights. The threats, the desperation, the loss of control and the sense that if she couldn't have this one thing, she didn't want anything—the sense of emptiness inside of her, gnawing its way through her bones until she felt she would become nothing but dust. 

“I wanted nothing more,” he said, “than to threaten the entire universe to get you back. And if that didn't work, I'd destroy whatever took you from me.”

“Good thing you got me back,” she said with a smile too weak for her to really feel. 

“I almost did it,” he said. “I almost destroyed the monster that took you.”

Her hand brushed against his face, trying to smooth away the tension she saw there, even as her own face filled with confusion. She'd seen Skaro fall. She didn't know all the details yet, but she'd seen that the entire city had been taken down. “You did fine,” she said. “You saved the day, you got me out. Did whatever you had to do in the past.”

“You don't understand,” he said.

*

There had been times—in confusion, in sickness—where he had done such an unthinkable thing as to turn on his own friends. But he had been clear-headed, or clear-headed enough, with a gun in his hand and Clara in front of him. And his memory was cruel about it, refusing to show him a dalek, only showing him her standing their, tear-streaked and fearful as he threatened her. 

The only reason she was there at all was because of him, and twice she had nearly died. Once by his own hands. 

“Then tell me,” she said. “Tell me what happened. Explain to me what's wrong.”

He desperately wanted to, to warn her away somehow, but his will was betrayed by his hearts and instead he found himself burying his face against her neck. “Later? Please, promise. I'm tired.”

“Why are you so tired?” she asked, though her arms wrapped around him without hesitation. “Could you at least tell me that?”

“Because-” 

This spilled out of him easily. How he'd figured out what Davros wanted, how he'd thought up a trap of his own, but how it had hurt more than he'd thought it would. How he'd so desperately wanted to take back the invitation he'd only offered as part of his plan to destroy the daleks, but couldn't, couldn't stop Davros from nearly ripping him apart, from taking so much, and then how he'd gone back, how the air had smelled of death and sick and how little he could do to help-

*

She hoped Davros was dead. 

Killed by his own creations, mauled and left to rot. She hoped it was a slow, utterly painful death, and—in spite of everything the wretch had put her through for as long as she'd known of her existence—she hoped Missy had gotten out, for her role in saving the Doctor. She could die some other day for her multitude of sins. 

Holding him, she realized she didn't need to hope for a time and place where the Doctor would not be compelled to fight. 

The asphyxiating darkness of the dalek shell was pushed aside for now, replaced with the driving need to keep hold of the Doctor as the words kept coming, thick and as meandering as she'd ever heard from him. She pressed a kiss against the crown of his head, stroked his back steadily, and let him exhaust himself in telling her what had happened. If this was what he needed, she could do it. Would do it, for him.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Clara only held him tighter, kissed him again, and murmured against his skin, “You've nothing to be sorry about.”

“I have lots to be sorry about.”

“Not with me, you don't.”

He sniffed, wiped at his face quickly before putting his arm back around her. “You wanted to watch Netflix and I cried on you instead.”

“Yeah, well,” she said with a surprised laugh. “Nice thing about Netflix is you can stream any time. Doesn't really matter if someone starts crying on you. And anyway, I'm the one who told you to start talking.”

He moved just enough so that he was looking at her again. “What about you? Don't you want to talk?”

She bit her lip, wanted to look anywhere other than him but couldn't. She wanted nothing more than to talk, to lay down in a wide open field with a blanket of stars above them and talk until she was hoarse, and after that, talk some more. She knew that could come later, though, that she would have time for it, that he would give it to her. “Take me somewhere else,” she said. “Later. Somewhere big, and I will.”

He nodded, then frowned. “What about now? What do we do?”

She could do this. She could help, she could act; her hands were her own, her words, her thoughts. She smiled, twined her legs with his and settled against him, and took a deep breath before speaking.

“Close your eyes.”


End file.
